


in the other pocket

by 01nm



Category: Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Autistic Peter, Family, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, New York City, SHIELD being creepy, Schmoop, Secret Identity Fail, peter wonders about a lot of things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/01nm/pseuds/01nm
Summary: Aunt May thinks that Peter's special interest is Spider-Man, and will stop at nothing to support him.Unfortunately for Peter, this means an increasing amount of Spider-Man merchandise filling up his room over the years.





	

**Author's Note:**

> my mom bought me spider-man curtains on the down low, and i only found out via my sibling's slippery mouth yesterday. 
> 
> the problem is that i'm undoubtedly going to absolutely hate the bright red and blue colors.
> 
> ...so i'm letting out all of my emotions onto poor peter, once again, in this epic tale of how fucking embarrassing it is to be caught with a room full of your own merchandise. +some (a lot of) schmoop.
> 
> *some violence, injuries, but nothing that peter won't heal from within a week

 

Peter just unwrapped his (singular, mind you) Christmas present.

 

“Um…”

 

His first tip was that the present was wrapped in frighteningly bright red and blue paper. It wasn’t reused, either – freshly bought. Scandalous in both accounts.

 

His second tip was Aunt May – smiling and carrying on about how she “knew Peter would just adore this” and how she was “so glad that it came in time” because she was afraid it wouldn’t ship until after the holidays.

 

His third and final tip was that it was from a blatantly Chinese company. His eyebrows shot up at that, and he had to fight to not look at his aunt in confusion.

 

Aunt May _never_ orders from anywhere but American companies, if she orders at all. It was left over prejudice and caution from Uncle Ben’s rants. Something about how the packaging was going to contain carcinogenic chemicals or something.

 

Peter had always rolled his eyes. He still does whenever it’s brought up.

 

Anyway – Aunt May appears to have purchased _Spider-Man_ bedroom curtains for Peter, and the disguised web-slinger himself is so thoroughly flabbergasted that he doesn’t even notice the flash of a camera going off.

 

He’s sure he’ll see his rapidly paling face framed within the next month or so.

 

How charming.

 

“Um…” His fantastically brilliant mind has his mouth say one more time, just for kicks and giggles.

 

“Now, Peter,” May begins, circling around the table to come and fitfully pluck at the remains of his wrapping paper. He has the haunting feeling that he’s going to be seeing that paper for years to come. “I understand that it might be embarrassing for your aunt to know what your _special topics_ are.”

 

“Um…” Anytime now, brain.

 

“…but this is the most interest I’ve ever seen you show in one, ah,” here, she fumbles a bit, eyes darting about the room, _“topic._ And if that topic happens to be a super-human or _what-they-say_ vigilante that crawls around in spandex on national T.V. –“

 

Peter’s mind takes another vacation. His body heats up his face oh-so-helpfully in the meantime.

 

“ – then I have no problem in supporting you, no matter what you love,” says his beautiful, wonderful, horribly misguided Aunt May as she plops a kiss onto the crown of his head. “I’m sure you can figure out how to hang these up yourself, now, can’t you? You’ve always been good with using your hands.”

 

“Sure thing, Aunt May,” Peter’s mouth says without his express permission. He does, however, wake from his mystified stupor long enough to reach out with his spindly arms, grasp around his aunt’s waist, and hug her close for one moment.

 

“Thanks, Aunt May.”

 

“Oh.” May makes that May noise. “You’re welcome, Peter. Merry Christmas, peanut.”

 

While Aunt May bustles away with the wrappings, Peter momentarily curses himself for peeling the tape off with care, like he’s always done, even though he intimately understands that no one’s wallet will regret it this time next year.

 

He sighs, lost, as he stares down at his newly acquired bootleg (it’s not like any company in _America_ would approve such merchandise at this moment. He’s only been out and about as a vigilante for less than a year) Spider-Man curtains.

 

Well. He better go and hang these up. Best not to disappoint Aunt May.

 

What is his life?

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The problem with having a secret identity, Peter thinks as he’s frantically leaping over a bench in the middle of a park, is the fact that you’re going to have some near uncontrollable emotions _about_ said identity.

 

Which is why he’s in this situation.

 

‘This situation’ being how he is dead-ahead _sprinting_ away from what may be an undercover SHIELD agent dressed (unlawfully – tsk, tsk!) as a city cop.

 

…That or it _is_ a cop and Peter’s about to be in some kind of trouble. Not that SHIELD _isn’t_ trouble – it’s just that SHIELD would probably perceive someone like Peter Parker as gum on their shoe.

 

That is, until Peter makes himself known on their radar, which he just accidentally did by verbally defending Spider-Man’s character in a public place, where he could be heard by everyone within a ten-yard radius.

 

Another problem is how he is marginally recognizable these days as The Daily Bugle’s Spider-Man photographer. His name is cited for every photo of his added to the paper, after all, and people at school talk about his job whenever Spider-Man does some particularly drastic stunt. Sometimes even while he’s nearby.

 

The third problem is that there’s nowhere to hide in this hillbilly nonsense of a park (what? He’s never been out of the city!) and Peter’s running (haha) out of breath.

 

The person chasing him, however, is most certainly _not._ They chug along like the frightening juggernaut that they are.

 

“Have you ever considered the Olympics?” Peter questions loudly, having stopped briefly at a tree, before giving a short shriek and taking up sprinting again. The stony-faced person had been picking up speed.

 

_Holy holly bells!_

 

All he said was some version of “you know, I don’t think that Spider-Man is _that terribly awful_ of a person. What a wild concept,” and here’s his reward. Being run down in a park, way-too-expensive-for-me camera slapping concernedly against his chest just like his thundering heart is.

 

Because his powers somehow give him great stamina and endurance, he eventually makes it into a more populated part of the city without downright collapsing. Once he’s sure he’s lost his eerily nimble tail, he immediately books it home despite having run flat out for an entire forty-five minutes.

 

When he gets there, however, he chokes on his breath, because the ‘police officer’ is sitting at the table with his aunt May.

 

What the heck.

 

No, no; he’s going to pull out the big guns for this one:

 

What the _hell._

 

“Peter!” Aunt May cries, jumping up from her seat. The ‘officer’ stands as well, just as silent and foreboding as Peter remembers them being… barely ten minutes ago.

 

Creep.

 

He makes a subtle face at them. They make no face back.

_Creeeeep._

 

“Officer Daniels here was just telling me about how you were being _harassed_ by some school kids while taking photos at the park,” his aunt says worriedly. Peter tries to make his face as non-confused as possible, because he was _hardly_ taking random photos at the _park._ He deserves more credit than ‘artsy nature photographer.’ “Oh – and you dropped this. Officer Daniels was so kind as to return it to its address.”

 

She holds up his wallet, with the little Spider-Man logo keychain that she got for him last week dangling from one end of it.

 

Peter has the sudden, blinding realization that the ‘officer’ _pickpocketed him_ within the short moment that they got close enough to do so, which was when they were quite literally scaring off the other people that Peter was having a conversation with.

 

 _Creep_ gets _creepier._

 

“Ma’am,” ‘Officer Daniels’ supplies, tipping their official looking hat in her direction. “Peter,” they say next, giving him a _Look_ that speaks volumes.

 

Oh, yea. That’s _definitely_ a SHIELD agent, and they are _definitely_ saying ‘We’ve got our eyes on you.’

 

Heck. No, wait: hell. This deserves a ‘hell’ on all accounts.

 

After being forced to give a polite goodbye to ‘Officer Daniels,’ Peter endures several more minutes of Aunt May berating him for “taking everything in the world onto his bony little shoulders.”

 

Oh, Aunt May. If only you knew.

 

Peter absentmindedly and affectionately stims with the keychain in between his fingers, rolling the metal sphere back and forth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Practically falling in through his bedroom window, Peter wheezes in pain as he holds onto his bruised ribs (or fractured, or broken, or _worse_. He’s not a medic; he just knows that they’ll heal. They’ll always heal.)

 

There’s something bright red draped across his computer chair.

 

Within the few seconds that his mind has to process this new visual information, he already checks off on it being any of his own articles of red clothing. His suit is currently hidden in the bag on his back. His only hoodie bright enough to be red is on his body, possibly soaking up his own blood.

 

…Which means that Aunt May’s been in his room between the time he ‘went to bed’ and the time he left for patrol.

 

 _“Frick,”_ Peter faux-curses, before promptly collapsing onto his floor in a graceless heap.

 

Marvelous.

 

Whimpering slightly, Peter shoves his bag full of confidential clothes up under his bed for now. He’ll just… have to deal with it later.

 

Right now, he’s cautiously sniffing the air (a weird habit, but helpful in certain situations) and creeping towards the Thing that’s blindingly bright even in the half-moonlight.

 

It’s a hoodie. He’s known it was a hoodie since the first sniff and forward shuffle. Except he’s still treating it like it’s some kind of bomb, sliding his only clean finger over the outside of the fabric and shivering lightly as his sensitive micro-hairs catch and grab at the fibers woven together.

 

For a lack of better things to do, Peter achingly contorts his way out of his ruined and bloody hoodie, peeling off his grimy undershirt while he’s at it.

 

Unsurprisingly, most if not all of his wounds have closed. Which is actually kind of a bad thing, because he took too long dragging himself home, and now he has no reliable way of cleaning them out without re-breaking the skin.

 

Huffing, Peter quietly crawls along the walls in just his shorts in order to get to the bathroom. Aunt May’s bedroom door is open, and the T.V. is on downstairs, which can actually mean a whole bunch of things, but the wall-crawler is going to bank on May being downstairs waiting for him to get home.

 

Because she can’t sleep when he’s outside after dark, and he knows it.

 

Guiltily, Peter rubs himself down in the bathroom in a form of a silent cat-bath. He winces at the noises he makes every time he has to turn on the faucet or if he drops a half-dead limb against the counter too hard.

 

He wonders if she’s awake. He wonders if she _knows._ Knows what? That is something that he can’t quite articulate at the moment.

 

He simply wonders.

 

Wincing in a grand facial twitch that holds back most of the noises he _really_ wants to make, Peter wonders if he’s going to get infected and die from this. He takes a look at his now mostly clean torso body in the mirror, deciding on a tired ‘probably not.’

 

He doesn’t bother crawling this time, instead shuffling back into his room. He shivers somewhat in the open air, whether it’s from exhaustion or from his body _actually_ being cold. He can’t really tell right now.

 

…Peter puts on the new hoodie without getting a good look at it first.

 

He almost immediately bites back some kind of pleased noise.

 

It’s _soft._ The kind of soft you only find in those fancy hoodies and sweatshirts for like $30 in the fitness section at the mall. The ones where if you wash them too many times, all the softness inside pills and curls into a much-less-soft mess.

 

Peter gets a look at himself in the mirror he set up in the back of his closet.

 

It’s got an airbrushed Spider-Man symbol on the front.

 

Oh. _Oh._

 

Aunt May must’ve gone to an expensive side-business or street-art stall to get this done. Must’ve bought one of the hoodies that Peter always secretly fawned over and pet at the mall, took it to the stall, and told them exactly what she wanted.

 

Peter, momentarily, dwells on whether or not she had to pull up a picture, maybe on her phone. Or maybe that stall is known for its down-low Spider-Man merch, like some less-than-reputable artists are these days.

 

Does Spider-Man have _actual_ fans…?

 

Peter simply cannot fathom it.

 

He also cannot fathom why he’s still standing around up here when he’s got an aunt to apologize to and repeatedly thank downstairs.

 

…Wait.

 

Peter’s eyes dart to the side. A necklace shaped like a star, made of foamy rubber, and of the red-blue variety takes his notice.

 

Gwen bought it for him before she left to study abroad.  In all honestly, it probably didn’t help his visage any in Aunt May’s eyes. Lord only knows when and how she got the idea that Spider-Man was his special interest in her head.

 

…Though, maybe he should be pointing fingers at his _job_ of _taking photography_ _of Spider-Man_ before some obscure present given when Spider-Man was just a cheap onesie and a pair of goggles in a small corner of Queens.

 

_…Anyway._

 

Peter sticks the star halfway in between his teeth, holds his hands up to his chest like a raptor, and walks on his tip-toes just to feel the pressure and height of it.

 

There. _Now_ he’s ready.

 

He finds Aunt May curled up on the couch, T.V. set on a cooking show that Peter hasn’t sat down and watched in _ages._ The star drops from his mouth to hang on his neck, and he stares down at her like a silent bug in the house.

 

“Oh, Aunt May…” Peter sighs a bit sadly, and a whole lot ashamedly. She looks _so tired_ that his heart aches.

 

He folds himself down onto the floor next to her, grunting as he goes, but doing it all the same. He feels the need to be on her level at this moment.

 

“Thank you…” Peter whispers, nosing gently at May’s soft, dark hair. “I’m… I’m _so_ sorry…”

 

Peter falls asleep leaning against the couch, halfway into finishing the cooking episode, his aunt’s breaths blowing into his ear rhythmically.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Spider-Man has unspoken loyalty to a few very specific food stands across the Queens borough. He’d be more cautious about it – really, he would – except he’s got _history_ with their owners. A save or two there, a family member spoke up for him, or maybe he was generally charming enough to warrant being served despite the mask and the reputation…

 

Which is why he finds himself choking on half of a hotdog, perched atop said ‘dog stand, in the middle of the day.

 

Because _Aunt May is here._

 

“Excuse me, Mr. Spider.”

 

_Yoikes!_

 

Peter – Spider-Man – coughs for a few moments into one gloved fist before lowering the other half of his ‘dog from his face, hastily rolling the mask back down because _oh,_ god, _Aunt May is going to_ recognize him _by his guiltily wobbling lips!_

 

“Shouldn’t you be more careful?” Aunt May comments, smooth as ever. “I don’t think you’re supposed to shove food into your mouth like that. You choked.”

 

“I have a big mouth,” Peter shoots back before wincing. That is _not_ something you say to May! “What can I uh... What can I do ya’ for?”

 

“Do you mind coming down here?” Aunt May asks, and Peter’s heart jumps. Until she begins to squint and shield her eyes, of course. “The sun is right in my eyes, and it’s hard to see who I’m talking to! You can stand on the ground like the rest of us, can’t you?”

 

“Oh, sure, yea, no problem, no _problem’o,_ one human spider comin’ right up,” Peter babbles, hopping down from the stand several long feet away from May. People walking by either glance at him or sneer at him, which he ignores. His spidey-sense will warn him if anyone tries to interrupt the conversation with ill intent.

 

Aunt May continues to squint at him.

 

(The ‘dog stand guy is pretending to squint in the opposite direction. What a champ.)

 

Peter hopes it’s because she needs glasses, and not because she’s _inspecting him_ or _thinking about something related to her nephew._

There’s two ways that this can go, Peter thinks. And both end in absolute, world-ending _disaster._

 

“So, uh,” Spider-Man begins awkwardly, slapping two hands together and swinging them around as he bounces anxiously on his toes. “Where r’you from? From? Here, I mean. Are you from New York or _not_ from _here?_ From here, _New York,_ I mean. I mean. Uh.”

 

_Disastrous._

 

“Oh, I’m sure we _both know_ where I’m from,” Aunt May jokes, and Peter chokes. “Our accents are the same. Don’t think I can’t tell, Mr. Spider.”

 

“Ac- accents?” Peter stumbles. He dances slightly away from May, laughing all strained-like as he goes. It doesn’t sound convincing at all. “What are you talking about? I’m from all over, haha!”

 

“You’re from Queens, too,” she says, all self-satisfied. Peter should know that expression. She makes it whenever she’s caught him in a little white lie. “I can hear it. You’re pushing through your nose, you know.”

 

Busted, _so_ busted. He’s so incredibly _busted_ that they’ll never find the pieces of him. He’ll be sold incompletely to a pawn shop a hundred years from now. He’ll be worth a fiver and a nickel if he’s lucky.

 

_Busted._

 

“But that’s alright,” Aunt May continues, despite Spider-Man having become oddly still and silent. “One of my favorite persons is from Queens, too.”

 

Peter wonders who she could be talking about.

 

“Which is who I need you to sign this for, if you would, please.” She begins to reach into the exact same purse she’s had since Peter was ten, and oddly excited expression on her face. “He’s been doing _so well_ lately – I want to show him how _proud_ I am of his efforts.”

 

Aunt May pulls out a rolled up paper from her purse, unrolling it to reveal… A Spider-Man poster.

 

What.

 

“It’s for my son,” she smiles, bright as can be. “He must be your number one fan; I can just tell. You might know him – Peter Parker? He takes your photograph all of the time for that little newspaper job of his.”

_What._

 

“I wouldn’t call The Daily Bugle a ‘little’ newspaper job,” Peter can’t help but say, still a bit (or a whole lot) shell-shocked.

 

Her son. Her _son!_

 

Catch him – he may faint. Or swoon. Is there a difference? He’ll look it up later.

 

May laughs lightly. “Oh, of course not. Excuse me. His _big_ newspaper job, then.”

 

“Oh, _ha-ha,”_ Peter responds somewhat sarcastically, easily accepting the large felt-tip marker she hands him. “Um… Do you just want ‘Spider-Man’ on it, or should I put ‘to Peter’…?”

 

 _God_ – this is _so weird._ He’s signing a poster of himself… _to_ himself!

 

He has the inexplicable urge to call up a certain flamebrain for autographical tips.

 

“Mm, just do whatever you usually do,” Aunt May tells him, nodding as if to encourage him to _stop hovering_ over the paper like it’s about to catch on fire and call his name for a tournament that he didn’t enter.

 

“…I don’t,” Peter quietly gets out. At May’s confused look, he reluctantly elaborates, “I don’t… Usually do this. New experience and all – kinda gettin’ a li’l nervous, you know?” He shuts himself up before he says anymore.

 

“Well…” May begins in nearly the _exact same_ way that she does when she talks to Peter. He feels rightly scandalized for it at the moment. “With the way Peter goes on and on about how _good_ you are, one would think that you would have a _gaggle_ of fans around every corner!”

 

Peter laughs self-deprecatingly, though not unkindly. “Then maybe Peter really _is_ my number one fan!”

 

The joke: Spider-Man’s only fan is himself.

 

Spectacular.

 

As Spider-Man is making his grand escape, dodging May’s thanks and well-wishes, he can’t help but pause and turn around as he’s standing on top of a building’s awning.

 

Aunt May waves at him. She hasn’t even left yet.

 

After a long moment of surprise, Peter slowly, slowly raises his hand and… waves back. Then he _gets the_ _heck outta there._

 

“Welcome to the Twilight Zone, Mr. Parker,” Peter mumbles to himself as he crawls on top of the tallest building he could find. There’s no shortage of them. “We hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”

 

He awkwardly shoves the rest of his cold hotdog into his mouth before swinging away. During his panic, he hadn’t noticed that he’d been holding the thing through the entire conversation.

 

He feels, as per usual, like a giant tool.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Someone’s yelling in Peter’s ear. Except he can’t hear, because he’s _pretty sure_ he _pretty much_ sat on top of some kind of _bomb._ And, per his luck, it went off like, well, a _bomb_ does.

 

What can he say? He’s a sucker for protecting people in harm’s way. If it means popping a squat on something that looks like it belongs in a sci-fi horror movie, then he’s gonna pop that squat.

 

“Mmmhun…” Peter mumbles. Or says. He might be saying something, and someone’s pulling at his burning shoulders – wow, he _really_ wishes they wouldn’t do that. It hurts – and trying to get him to sit up.

 

His arms make good use of themselves by limply rolling like noodles at his sides, just like his lolling head.

 

It would be funnier if he could feel something other than _pain._ Hear something other than _ringing silence._

 

 _“ – pider – !”_ Someone shouts right into his ear, but it mostly sounds like trilling static. “ – elp! _Hel –!”_

 

The ground shakes worryingly. _Thump thump. Thump thump._ Almost like a heartbeat. Or footsteps.

 

Was that too morbid? He feels like that was too morbid…

 

_Thump thump, thump thump, thump!_

 

“—aaaaaaagh!”

 

Peter’s weight is abruptly dropped as the concrete next to him splits open.  His senses _scream_ in a loud enough crescendo that he rolls out of the way of some kind of explosion just in time, the world horribly tinny and unreal and _quiet_ in a _loud_ way as he clings to the inside of the ground fissure.

 

He may or may not curse out loud. He hopes no one tells his Aunt May.

 

Peter forces his nearly numb arms to spring him up and above that big grey blob-thing – wow, he _maybe_ has a concussion if his vision is _this_ messed up – and then back down again as he attaches two strong webs to the thing’s swinging head.

 

He doesn’t understand why he just thought of Aunt May.

 

In a burst of jittery, almost _angry_ strength, Peter pulls taut his webs and uses them to _slam_ the thing’s approximation of a head into the ground.

 

There’s a spray of heat across his front, which seeps through the thin spandex and makes him realize that it’s _wet._

 

It’s blood.

 

It’s not his.

 

Peter still doesn’t understand why he thought of Aunt May.

 

There’s a small crowd of people stagnating nearby, and Peter turns towards them despite not really having his equilibrium about him.

 

The whatever-it-is-he-just- _totaled_ lets out a heartfelt groan and collapses a bit more, most definitely down and out. And thankfully not dead. Peter knows that he let his strength get away from himself for a moment there.

 

 _“Whew,”_ Peter slurs, bending over and breathing heavily through the sudden onslaught of pain. More like – his sudden _awareness_ of pain. “S’so gla’ t’at you… I didn’ kill you. Holy _mother_ of _pearl –“_

 

He grunts, dropping like a sack of potatoes.

 

Several people come running over, their feet vibrating the ground in a way that hurts differently from when the big thing was stomping around and flinging its bombs everywhere like a new age ogre.

 

He can’t quite seem to remember if he’s supposed to blame the Avengers for any of this fiasco or not. It’s somehow directly been their fault six out of ten times these days. He mentally shrugs and decides to be extra snooty the next time he denies Iron Man his secret identity _or_ his publicized help.

 

Don’t get him wrong, though: he’ll still, you know, _help_ – he just won’t affiliate himself with the team or anything. He’ll distance himself, like everybody else suddenly got polio or _the_ _most_ _embarrassing_ after-battle helmet hair (he’s looking at you, Cap.)

 

Someone is dragging him up, probably as gently as they possibly can, but it still hurts and his limbs feel like lead, dragging him down to the hot and dirty (oh dear) ground despite some of their best efforts.

 

He knows, he knows – he sure does _look_ like a string bean, but he’s actually packing some weight these days. He’s not a flimsy highschooler anymore; he’s got several years’ worth of experience and all that _fun_ jazz.

 

One of his ribs twinge so hard that he cries out.

 

So, so fun.

 

For a while there, his beaten and broken mind is more than content to let these random people handle his equally useless body. Some of them hover around and touch different parts of him in worry, others circle the area like protective vultures of some kind.

 

Peter’s first venture back into the real world is the abrupt control of certain parts of his body. It is _very_ painful, but also annoying, because he can feel his nose bleeding all down his face. It’s distracting, and somewhat itchy, so he flings one of his arms up all graceful-like to wipe at it. He belatedly notices that there are great big rips in his mask, which is mildly concerning.

 

His second ‘huh, that sure is weird’ moment is when he gets a good look at the vulture people. They’re all holding hands and circling him. Like, _really_ circling him – it looks so organized that, for a moment, Peter worries that he’s about to be included in some kind of satanic ritual. He hopes not, since his only options for rescue are the Avengers. He would rather get sacrificed to the great vulture gods, if he’s being honest.

 

His third and final warning that _all is not right_ is when he hears several people within the vicinity mention the word “hospital.”

 

Oh no.

 

“He needs to go to a hospital!” A man in a ruined business suit shouts up at a woman in an equally dirty smock of some sort. “He’s lost so much blood – he can barely stand! To _hell_ with the mask! Spider-Man’s _dying,_ you idiot _– he needs help!”_

 

“How do I know you’re not just some _Bugle_ enthusiast _pretending_ to care!?” The woman shoots back, using her height to her advantage to speak _over_ the man. “You and I both know that Spider-Man’s identity is one of the _biggest_ secrets that New York keeps. Or maybe you’re just some _smarmy tourist –“_

 

“I’m from _Brooklyn!”_

 

“Congrats! You’re an asshole.”

 

“Why, you –!”

 

 _Oh_ _no._

 

Y’see – he only caught about half of that conversation, what with his ears done shot and all, but he’s pretty sure that he needs to _get the heck outta here_ before the circle of people protecting him from _who knows what_ is broken open somehow.

 

That, or someone _actually_ tries to take him to the hospital. In his state, they may as well succeed.

 

“It’s okay,” Peter gets out. The person holding his body together with their arms shuffles around and makes a concerned noise as he slowly lifts himself up into some semblance of a standing position. “It’s okay. I’m alright. Everything’s tooootally fine!”

 

All is _not_ okay, obviously, but Spider-Man is standing as straight as possible and, with a few acting methods, is believed that he’s alright enough that he is ‘allowed’ by the group of New Yorkers to leave, so long as he promises to get medical help as soon as possible.

 

With a shot of affection in his chest, Peter risks his performance by swinging up and out of the circle of protection. As he goes, he gets a pain-filled glance at just what he was ‘being protected’ from.

 

Black cars. Black suits. Blank faces.

 

SHIELD just never stops being creepy, does it?

 

“Wait! Spidey, wait!” Some of the paramedics also being blocked shout at him as he makes his great escape, but he only allows them a jaunty wave. They only want to help, but he can’t risk passing out or getting carted away by SHIELD in disguise.

 

Peter’s pretty sure he dissociates while he’s swinging home. It’s a good thing that everyone’s either hiding or out, or else anyone could figure out where he lives if they saw him now. The pain is a bit too much for him to be truly conscious the entire time, but he still doesn’t blame himself when he clumsily falls in through his bedroom window and immediately begins to wheeze and sob and _panic._

 

Which is the best time ever for Aunt May to come busting in his room, baseball bat in hand.

 

Classic Aunt May.

 

“M… Ma…” Peter stiltedly gets out, clutching at the carpet of his room with hands that nearly splinter themselves with his own strength. He swallows and tries again. _“Mom.”_

 

Aunt May abandons her bat and rushes forward, dropping onto the floor despite her bad knees, and pulls off the remains of his torn mask with shaking fingers. “Peter. _Peter._ Oh – _Peter.”_

 

“I’s okay, May,” Peter tries to get out, only his emotional tears are filling his throat with mucus and saliva and generally making everything about this more difficult than it needs to be, really. “I’s okay.”

 

It’s not okay. But the two Parkers are troopers.

 

They somehow end up with Peter being clumsily folded into May’s arms as she rocks them slightly, mumbling wordless affection and assurances into his bloody hair as he pants his way through a panic attack, several waves of pain, and his own concussion ever so slowly healing itself into a more manageable level.

 

Twice does May attempt to get him up and to the bathroom to be looked over, and twice does Peter whine and beg and say “not yet, please, not yet,” in order to stay there, on the floor, in the safety of her arms for a little bit longer.

 

Eventually, when Peter is more of a rag-doll than he is a shaking, shivering mess, his eyes begin to roam the contents of his familiar room. A shoddy attempt to ground himself, but an attempt nonetheless.

 

Spider-Man curtains. The logo charm on his wallet, which he left when he hastily suited up and flung himself out the window not but an hour before. A plethora of Spider-Man posters, not a repeat in sight, with one being signed specifically ‘To Peter Parker – the best son a mother could ask for, no matter what. From Spider-Man.’ The red and blue decal on his laptop, stretching over to his small collection of themed clothes.

 

His bedspread – new, it _must_ be – which Aunt May probably got as a surprise for him, and set it up while he was off saving people and getting beaten and saving more people and getting even more beaten and then _being saved_ by those same people…

 

Peter can’t help it.  He begins to laugh.

 

“You thought –“ Peter coughs slightly, his laughter shaking both his body and his aunt’s. “You thought that _Peter Parker_ was _Spider-Man’s_ _number one fan._ You thought that _I_ was _my own fan.”_

 

After a startling moment of clarity, Aunt May begins to laugh too.

 

“I love my boy,” she says, quietly at first, then louder. “I love you, Peter.”

 

“…I know,” Peter responds, sadly looking at the floor. “I love you too.”

 

Unfortunately, the next part isn’t so happy. Peter has to shuffle himself to the bathroom, reveal his hiding spot for a very extensive (and worryingly used) first aid kit to his aunt, and then guiltily hand the reins over to the only nurse in the room.

 

It kind of feels like giving up – he’s been keeping this secret for _three and a half years._ To protect _her._

 

…but it also feels like _finally being safe._ He knows that Aunt May can’t fight off the monsters and villains and _evil_ that he fights, but she can fight _for_ him just by being here. Just by believing him.

 

“This means no more lying,” May informs him stiffly after a while of gauze and snipping scissors and water and ointment, “Do you understand that? No. More.”

 

“Yes, May,” Peter concedes easily, slumping heavily against the counter as his aunt wraps up a burnt part of his leg that he doesn’t really remember getting.

 

“And we’re going to have _a talk._ Alright? A good, long one. About everything,” she tells him, groaning slightly as she straightens her bent back. Despite himself, Peter abortively reaches out to help her. “Right after you rest and recover. You’re going to tell me _everything_ that you can.”

 

“…Yes. I will, Aunt May,” Peter says quietly, looking down at the floor once more.

 

He wonders how it’s possible for him to feel _so ashamed_ and yet _so relieved_ all at once.

 

“Aunt May, I’m _so sor –“_

 

“Ah- _ah!”_ She stops him with one wagging finger and a hard gaze, “None of that, now. No more of that, you hear me?” She lets out something akin to a sigh, putting away the kit in a more easily reachable place. It speaks worlds to him, how she does that. “Now go put something clean on. You’re sleeping on the couch where I can watch you.”

 

Aunt May leaves before Peter can really get his wits about him. He stands, stagnant, in the bathroom, with nothing but his shorts on, and shivers from pain and emotion.

 

Peter sniffles quietly for a few moments, overwhelmed, before shuffling to his bedroom.

 

He, of course, wears his Spider-Man hoodie. True to his hypothesis the first night he wore it, the inside is now pilled and much less soft than it was when it was new, but he doesn’t mind. It smells and feels and looks familiar. He loves the darn thing.

 

Just because he can now, he crawls his way along the walls in order to get downstairs. It’s somehow easier and less painful than walking, and it’s all worth it when he sees the look on his aunt’s face when she glances towards the stairs and sees him hanging (literally) in the corner of the room.

 

“…How often have you crawled all over the house like that?” His aunt questions him, no doubt accusing him of using his abilities to sneak around.

 

Which, uh, he did. He definitely did.

 

Peter doesn’t say anything, and shrugs. He probably looks as guilty as he feels.

 

Despite his best efforts to stay awake and prove to Aunt May that they can talk now, if she wants to, he’s totally awake, totally… _Yawn…_

Well… He’s been a pretty great actor for the past few years, if he says so himself. He thinks he deserves a reprieve of sorts.

 

Peter falls asleep on the couch halfway through a cooking show episode, May standing over him like a silent guardian as she drapes a blanket across his curled form.

 

“Oh, Peter…” She whispers, so ashamed of herself. He looks so _tired_ like this.

 

She wonders if she should blame herself for not helping more – for not connecting the dots.

 

She folds herself down onto the floor next to the couch, wincing at her old bones creaking as she goes, but doing so anyway.

 

She feels like she needs to be on his level for right now.

 

“Thank you,” May mumbles, placing a feather light kiss onto his bruised forehead. “And I am so sorry…”

 

Peter breathes in and out rhythmically.

 

Safe for now.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If it's unclear: No, the SHIELD agent doesn't know that Peter is Spider-Man. Instead, Peter's made a bit too much noise both taking pictures of the newest vigilante for a prominent newspaper and by defending said vigilante whenever he can. Also, Peter knows what SHIELD is because they trouble him a lot + as per Cap 2, the Avengers don't really hold onto their secrets very well.
> 
> p.s. Peter starts this fic at 15, ends it at 18. Hence the collection of Spider-Man stuff grows from bootleg to 'official' as Spider-Man actually becomes popular in the positive direction. May and Peter are kind of forever pinching pennies, and couldn't purchase that much during a single year, so it was over several years instead. Which makes Peter's identity fail all the more embarrassing.


End file.
